


Inevitable

by FledglingQueen



Series: By Any Other Name [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:48:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28535427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FledglingQueen/pseuds/FledglingQueen
Summary: Five people who recognized the inevitability of how Geralt and Jaskier were circling each other, plus one who needed a little extra guidance.A companion piece to Singing Silver; missing scenes and character exploration.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: By Any Other Name [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090373
Comments: 56
Kudos: 159





	1. Yennefer

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter correlates with Singing Silver Chapter 8 - Waking Up.

“My Name,” the bard croaked. Even in the warm glow of the firelight, he looked pale and drained by the admission. The honeyed porridge sat in Yennefer’s belly like a stone. “I gave her my Name.”

The fear of the unknown - which had crackled in the air like lightning and blood, like Fae magic - grew putrid in the back of Yennefer’s throat.  _ Of course the idiot couldn’t take care of himself even camped behind three layers of wards, _ she thought bitterly as Geralt cursed.

“You moron.” 

He smiled and tried to wave their reactions aside. Yennefer watched tension climb the tendons in Geralt’s neck and longed to wrap her fingers around the bard’s throat and  _ squeeze _ . She spoke without thinking, trying to exorcise the anxiety boiling her blood and force it into Jaskier’s thick head. 

_ How dare he _ , she wanted to scream,  _ how dare he frighten me. _

It almost surprised her when Geralt, not Jaskier, withdrew first. He retreated to the edge of the firelight and stood facing the darkness. Yennefer watched him walk away and the fight drained out of her.

She had been so focused on flaying Jaskier with her words that she had forgotten how tightly the Witcher and his bard were bound together. Cutting one bled the other.

In the panic of her own pain and fury, she had forgotten. 

Jaskier met her eyes across the fire and she read the same regret mirrored in his gaze. He watched her, poised on the edge of his log, and she didn’t need to use telepathy to carry the conversation between them.

_ He’s hurting because he’s afraid, _ the wrinkle between Jaskier’s brows said. 

She clutched the fabric of her skirts against her knees.  _ I forgot we had that power over him. _

_ Fix it,  _ he seemed to cry, leaning forward.  _ Fix it, or I will. _

For a moment, Yennefer contemplated rising and brushing out her skirts. She could so clearly picture how it would go. 

She would sneer at Jaskier, silently mocking his idiocy and threatening retribution, and he would slump back in defeat. Geralt would be stone-stiff when she approached. He would ask if there was anything they could do to grant Jaskier his freedom. He would ask if there was anything  _ she _ could do.

There would be no comfort in her answer.

Jaskier’s eyes were wide and anxious. Geralt’s shoulders were a dam beginning to crack from the pressure of his worry. 

Yennefer twitched her chin.  _ Go, _ she said silently,  _ this is beyond my power. _

He was at Geralt’s elbow before the weight of her unspoken words had settled fully. Yennefer couldn’t hear what they said to one another, but she watched them. She watched them even when the anger and fear in Geralt’s expression sparked something else.

Something she doubted the Witcher himself even recognized.

He pulled Jaskier into his arms and she turned her attention to the fire. The heat stung her eyes. She wrapped her arms around herself, painfully aware of the night’s empty noises. It was a beautiful summer evening, but she couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt so cold.

They returned to the inn eventually, but four walls did little to banish the glassy look from Jaskier’s eyes. When they reached their rooms, Yennefer felt as though the bard had sunk hooks beneath her skin. He watched them from his doorway, pitifully small as they left him behind.

“Well then,” he stage whispered, “this is me.”

The wood of the door frame was rough beneath her palm.  _ Come with us, _ part of her cried.  _ You gave your Name  _ ~~_ for him _ ~~ _ ,  _ ~~_ for me _ ~~ _ , for us _ . She could no longer tell whether the bitter stench of fear belonged to Jaskier, or Geralt, or herself. She hated it. She wanted it gone. She was so tired of being alone. 

But she wasn’t alone. Geralt stood at her elbow, drawn taut between the two of them.

She wasn’t alone.

The fire lit easily with a word of power. Yennefer shed her gown and climbed into bed as Geralt murmured a quiet good night and followed her. He removed his armor and boots in contemplative silence, watching her without truly seeing her. 

The sheets were rough and warm, and she was tired. She settled down and pillowed her hands beneath her cheek, returning his gaze and matching his empty exhaustion.

“Could she truly command him?” Geralt asked as he climbed in beside her. 

Yennefer frowned. “Yes.”

“Is there anything--”

“The Fae have their own magic. We may be able to use it, on occasion, but there is little even a sorceress of Aretuza can do to combat the old works. And Naming is the oldest magic of all.”

Geralt closed his eyes and Yennefer’s breath caught in her chest.  _ I’m sorry _ , she thought.  _ I never meant him to be hurt. _

“If she were dead,” he began slowly.

Yennefer shook her head. “The risk is too great. Better to hope that she forgets his existence and stay as far from here as you can manage.”

“Hmm.”

Irritation flared like a bed of coal in her breast. “He has plenty of practice with that, at least. How many times have you had to rescue him from enraged husbands?”

His eyes cracked open to the barest hint of reproachful gold. Yennefer sighed and turned her back to him, dousing the fire.

She fell asleep waiting for the sensation of his skin against her own. It never came.

Yennefer awoke to full throated screaming. Geralt rolled from the bed and drew his steel sword in a single move.

Her heart pounded at the base of her throat. Jaskier - it had to be Jaskier, who else would put that fire in Geralt’s eyes - wailed like a dying man and Yennefer desperately wanted to echo him. She wanted him to be silent. She wanted him a thousand miles away.

Geralt pulled the chair out from beneath the door handle and moved to unlatch it. Painfully awake, though her mind felt doubly fogged with the remnants of not-enough sleep, Yennefer cast a seeking spell. It found nothing.

“It’s a nightmare,” she croaked as Geralt threw the door open. “He’s just having a nightmare.”

The Witcher paused. Jaskier screamed again, louder now that their door was open. Yennefer tried to hide her flinch. Geralt did not.

“Go back to sleep, I’ll return shortly.”

“I will not,” she snarled.

She meant, _I will not sleep._ _Not when I can hear his pain._ Or perhaps it was, _I will not suffer to take orders from the man who leaves my bed._

Geralt shut the door softly at his back and she listened to his footsteps down the hall. Jaskier’s screams cut off abruptly with a choked cry, and Yennefer drew her knees up to her chest.

Slowly, she counted her breaths and strained her ears. The hall was silent. The sky paled. 

She reached six hundred and her chest ached.

Geralt did not return.

Yennefer gathered her packs with shaking hands and counted the price of the rooms onto the table by the bed. Jaskier’s screams echoed hauntingly in her ears. The silence of the hall threatened to choke her.

_ I will not, _ she thought. The portal stung her hands and siphoned her already worryingly low reserves of power.  _ I will not wait for you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it! I overcame... an embarrassing number of months of writer's block!
> 
> This will be a highly self-indulgent collection of fluff and angst from various third party perspectives as Geralt and Jaskier get their shit together. Most of the chapters will be fairly short (or so I'm planning - we'll see how everything actually turns out).
> 
> Let me know if there's something specific you'd like to see! I'm excited to get back into the swing of things.


	2. Josef

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier’s fingers drummed against the settee cushion as he watched Josef warily. “I’ll leave, if you want.”
> 
> “What about our conversation has given you the impression that I want you to leave?”
> 
> “Nothing,” he admitted. “But I promised myself that I’d stop assuming after-- That I’d stop assuming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bridges (part of) the gap between Chapter 10 - Storytelling and Chapter 12 - Reunited.

“My Lord, there’s someone asking for you at the gates.”

Josef set his tea aside and pinched the bridge of his nose. A telltale headache bloomed behind his eyes at the blatant amusement in the guard’s expression. He only knew one person to inspire that level of schadenfreude in the normally stalwart guardsmen. “Don’t tell me. Jaskier?”

“Unless you’ve got other musically-minded cousins, sir.”

“My parents had no siblings,” Josef grumbled, pushing himself to his feet. “Thank you, soldier. Back to your duties.”

He waited until the guard was out of sight before setting off toward the gateroom. 

It was early autumn and the air was still warm and flush with the last caress of summer. The heat, which had promised a pleasant afternoon, sat oddly with him now.

Jaskier did not come to Redania in the summer. He came with the bite of winter snow or at the first breath of spring. He came to Redania because the White Wolf wintered in Kaedwen. This visit out of season felt like missing a step on a familiar staircase.

By the time he’d made it to the gate, Josef’s belly was in knots. 

“--and I realized that the very man who saved my wretched life was the one I had been searching for! My long-lost cousin. You know, the family resemblance is almost uncanny. Why my great aunt Hildegarde--”

Jaskier was holding court. Even as road-weary and filthy as he obviously was, Josef could see no other way to describe the thrall he held over his audience of hopefully-off-duty guardsmen. He had procured a stool from some alcove and perched upon it like a king upon his throne, gesticulating grandly.

Josef slipped into the shadows behind him and hooked his toe on the leg of the stool. Jaskier tumbled into the dust with a yelp and the guardsmen leapt to attention.

“The queen doesn’t pay her men to loiter like schoolboys,” he called over the general grumblings. “Find work. Or I will find it for you.”

Jaskier sat up and rubbed his hip ruefully. As his audience dispersed, the rapture of their attention faded from his face. He looked tired, Josef noted. The kind of tired you didn’t get from a few months on the road. 

He offered the bard a hand up. “You look like shit.”

Jaskier’s grip was gritty. He heaved himself to his feet and slapped Josef’s shoulder with a wan smile. “You say the sweetest things, Josef. Flattery will get you anywhere.”

“Flattery is for fools. What you need is a good meal.”

“I certainly shan’t protest that assertion,” Jaskier agreed amiably. He thrust his bedroll into Josef’s hands and gathered the rest of his meager belongings. 

They walked together through the winding palace halls, shoulders brushing in companionable silence. When they made it to Josef’s private chambers, Jaskier darted through the antechamber and collapsed onto the settee beside the fire with a groan. Josef stacked his bags by the door and rang for a servant.

“You’re getting my furniture dirty,” he grumbled without any real heat.

Jaskier grinned. “Call for a bath if you don’t like it.”

“You know where the bathhouse is.”

He waved his hand dismissively and wriggled deeper into the plush cushion. The worry lines in his forehead and around his eyes had already begun to ease, though sweat left the skin there pale and clean of the dust that darkened the rest of his face. It aged him in a way that felt alien; Jaskier had never seemed anything less than irritatingly youthful, for all that Josef had known the man a decade.

Josef knelt at Jaskier’s feet and set to work at the buckles on his boots. He winced as the right boot came free and revealed skin rubbed raw. What was left of Jaskier’s socks were damp with blood.

He tossed the shoe away and fumbled with the next.

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

Jaskier’s head was rolled painstakingly away from him. Only the darkest sliver of blue glittered behind his hooded eyes to indicate the focus of his exhausted attention. 

“You need new socks.”

“Didn’t seem like a priority.”

Josef raised a skeptical brow. “Your blisters argue otherwise.”

The left foot was only slightly less gruesome than the right. He eased the socks off next, wincing at the pull of clotted blood as cloth separated from scabbed skin. It wasn’t bad enough to smell of rot, but the sight still set his teeth on edge. 

A soft knock at the door distracted him. He patted Jaskier’s ankle and went to request food and a bathing tub. Jaskier was asleep by the time he returned.

Josef let him rest. Years of habit and a natural tendency toward nosiness guided him to pull Jaskier’s bags over to his desk and begin to sort through their contents with professional intrigue. 

The clothing came out first, tucked at the top of the largest bag and wrapped in oiled paper. Josef pressed his hands gently on each package, checking for the telltale stiffness of coin purses or weapons. Finding nothing, he set them aside unopened. The depths of the bag yielded various instrumental accoutrements and other, more familiar, tools necessary to forge life on the road.

He laid these items out neatly and began to press the seams of the bag itself. A frayed knot at the bottom of the pack indicated a hidden pocket. Josef picked it loose and shook out a purse which, at a brief estimate, seemed to contain something in the realm of forty crowns.* Setting the bag aside, he lifted Jaskier’s bedroll to his knees. He had noticed the weight while carrying it earlier, and now unwound the ties with shameless curiosity.

Before the roll had uncoiled a third of the way, a dagger slid loose from the folds. It knocked against the desktop and Josef froze, eyes trained on Jaskier’s sleeping face. The bard twitched at the noise, but eased gradually back into sleep after several long beats of silence.

Moving more slowly, Josef examined the blade. It was plain and obviously well-made. At a guess, he’d say it was only one whetstone from new. It would hardly be worth noting except Josef had never known Jaskier to carry weapons before. The only dangerous places he went were at Geralt of Rivia’s side, and a Witcher was more than sufficient to keep even the most mischievous bard safe. Or so Jaskier always claimed when Josef fretted.

There was another coin purse tucked into the foot of the bedroll. This one was plump with a generous mix of orens and farthings, at least equal in value to the purse from Jaskier’s bag.* Setting these items aside, Josef flipped the latches for Jaskier’s lute case and peered inside.

The lute itself was as beautiful as always. It glowed with use and care, any nicks in the varnish had been lovingly buffed out. Josef half expected the instrument to spontaneously burst into song as Jaskier slept.

He eased it out of the velvet cushion and ran delicate fingers around the lining. A small silk tab indicated a hidden compartment. Josef tugged it open and couldn’t help but grin. The pocket was deceptively deep and contained a third purse with a tidy sum of ducats,* and the ultimate prize:

One journal, three-quarters full.

He flipped idly through the pages as the servants arrived and began trooping through his rooms, bringing a copper tub and filling it with steaming water. The writing was an eclectic mix of elegantly flowing script, far beyond anything Josef could manage even with years of training, and Jaskier’s appallingly enthusiastic scrawl. He counted a half-dozen love poems, four ballads of the White Wolf (only one of which he recognized from performances at the local tavern), two epic sagas of battles with names he did not recognize, and uncounted pages of musical notation. At least a third of the journal was taken up by folklore and faerie tales, neatly labeled by region and heavily annotated in what looked like Elder.

The most recent page was more ink than paper, line after line struck through and rewritten until Josef could barely see the words that Jaskier had deemed acceptable past the haze of his apparent errors. He was puzzling over it - a love song about destruction was a bit cynical for Jaskier’s usual taste - when Jaskier stirred.

“You’re packing that back up,” he muttered hazily.

Josef hummed without looking up. “There’s a bath behind the screen. Food will be here soon.”

Jaskier eased himself up and limped to the screen, shedding his doublet and chemise as he walked. The last of the servants excused themselves and the room was quiet except for the splash of water and absentminded humming as Jaskier washed the road from his skin. Josef sighed and began returning the scattered possessions to their previous order.

“Where were you this time?” He called after the sound of washing faded into the contented bliss of a hot soak. “Oxenfurt? Cintra? Toussaint?”

“Fucking Caingorn.”

Josef tapped his nose pensively. “Niedamir’s hunt, then? Can’t think of any other reason for you to be so far north this early in the year.”

Jaskier was silent.

“Well? Did you find the dragon?”

For several minutes, the soft sounds of water and the crackle of the hearth were his only answer. At last, Jaskier sighed. “After a fashion.”

“Haven’t heard any word of it,” Josef prompted when Jaskier’s silence stretched on. Niggling dread bit between his shoulder blades. “I’ve never known your deed songs to travel slower than you do.”

“I haven’t written any,” Jaskier admitted. His voice was hoarse.

Josef was on his feet before the words had fully registered. He knelt by Jaskier’s tub, ignoring the other man’s splutters. “Are you hurt?” He gripped Jaskier’s chin and forced the bard to meet his eyes. “Sick? Is someone after you?”

“Oh come now, cousin!” Jaskier exclaimed weakly. “It’s just an inspirational rut; I’ve had them before.”

“And a dragon hunt with your White Wolf couldn’t pull you out of it?”

Jaskier recoiled as though Josef had sheathed a stiletto in his ribs. His eyes glazed with hurt and he ducked until his chin was level with the bathwater. “Yes, well. He’s not ‘my’ anything and it was never his job to pull me anywhere.”

Sick, hot fury raced from Josef’s scalp to the tips of his toes. His chest clenched and his fingers tingled with the urge to wrap around Geralt of Rivia’s throat. Whatever the Witcher did to put that particular expression on Jaskier’s face, it would be a fatal error. Josef would see to it.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Don’t.” Jaskier’s hand, slick with water and Josef’s sandalwood bath oils, clutched at his sleeve. “Please don’t.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t,” Josef challenged. He caught Jaskier’s hand up between his own. “If he hurt you--”

“It wasn’t intentional.” 

“That hardly matters.”

The arrival of the food interrupted Jaskier’s response. Reluctantly, Josef went to accept the tray. By the time he returned, Jaskier had finished in the bath and wrapped himself in one of Josef’s dressing gowns. He tucked his blistered toes into the billowing fabric as he settled on the settee once more.

Josef brought the food to him and dragged a chair over to sit at his side.

“What happened?”

The story fell from Jaskier’s lips in fits and starts. Each word felt like a pebble added to a cairn. He could see why Jaskier hadn’t tried to write a song about the hunt.

If he put this tale to music, the continent would weep.

“--when I woke, Yennefer was gone. I thought of going to Oxenfurt, or even Cintra, but once I started walking…”

“You were right to come here.” Josef reassured him.

Jaskier’s shoulders slumped with relief. He set the last bites of his meal aside and buried his face in his hands. “I’m so  _ tired _ , Josef,” he whispered. “Every time I try to put words to it, I just…”

“Then don’t put words to it .”

“I’m a bard,” Jaskier said. He pressed the heels of his hands harder into his eyes and shuddered bleakly. “Without words, what use am I?”

“You’re valued beyond your usefulness, Jaskier.”

He snorted. “Well that’s a shit way for a spymaster to think.”

“Fine. Stop singing for a time. Come work for me.” The words slipped from Josef’s mouth without thought, but once they were in the air between them, some tension in his shoulders eased.  _ Yes, _ he thought,  _ this will make it right. _

“As one of your agents?” Jaskier scoffed.

“Why not?”

“Have you seen me? I’d make a terrible spy.”

“Your ‘gossip’ already brings me better intelligence than half my recruits, and you aren’t even trying.” Josef plucked a berry from the bowl on the tray and sat back. Mentally he began rearranging his network, easily fitting Jaskier’s skills into the gaps in his current teams’ expertise. “A few months of training and you’ll be our most valuable asset.”

“Just because I’m your cousin--”

“You’re not my cousin.”

Jaskier flung his hands up. “There you have it. I can’t even convince you that we’re related, how the hell do you expect me to act as a Redanian Intelligence Agent? I’m not--”

“Jaskier!” 

The exclamation put a halt to Jaskier’s protests, at least. Josef rubbed his hand across his face and went to his desk to collect a small pot of salve and a roll of bandages. When he returned, Jaskier was flushed and pinched with misery.

With gentle hands, Josef tugged Jaskier’s feet out from under him and stretched them to rest in his lap. The salve was cool and spread a thin patina of lavender and comfrey-scented grease over the tender blisters.

“You aren’t my cousin.”

“What if I told you--”

“I may only be a minor noble, Jaskier, but I know my family tree. You aren’t on it.”

Josef gripped Jaskier’s ankles firmly when the bard began to draw them back. The struggle ended before it truly began and he eased his grip, dabbing more salve onto the worst of the sores.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier’s voice was little more than a breath. “If I embarrassed you or… I’m sorry.”

“You’ve never embarrassed me,” Josef corrected him, reaching for the bandages. He glanced up with a wry grin. “Well, perhaps that time with Nicoline.”

Jaskier’s returning grin was watery, but real. “How was I supposed to know she was your second in command?”

He bit back the automatic retort and waved his hand dismissively. “You’ve never truly embarrassed me. Mind you, I still don’t know why you latched on to me. I thought it was an accident for a while. Perhaps you truly were searching for your cousin and stumbled upon me by mistake--”

“Not a mistake.”

“Yes, I’d guessed as much after a year or two.” With one last twist, the linen bandage was secured around Jaskier’s ankle. Josef wiped off the last of the salve on Jaskier’s bare shin and sat back with a sigh. 

Jaskier’s fingers drummed against the settee cushion as he watched Josef warily. “I’ll leave, if you want.”

“What about our conversation has given you the impression that I want you to leave?”

“Nothing,” he admitted. “But I promised myself that I’d stop assuming after-- That I’d stop assuming.”

The urge to kill Geralt of Rivia flared again, but Josef was careful to keep the impulse off his face. “You don’t have to assume. I’m telling you right now - explicitly - there is space for you here. Whether you choose to play music for the court, or join my network, or sit in my office and drink your way through my wine cellar, you’ll be welcome.”

Jaskier chuckled but his eyes were bright and uncertain. The muscles in his jaw jumped and Josef heard his breath hitch in his throat, catching on words he seemed unable to voice.

He’d never known Jaskier to be speechless. He lowered Jaskier’s feet to the floor and stood with a sigh. “You’ve called me your family for over a decade, Jaskier. I’m not Geralt of Rivia. I know what it means.”

Following some unpracticed instinct, Josef bent to kiss the crown of Jaskier’s head. He lingered there for three slow breaths, taking in the scent of bathwater and sandalwood. Jaskier leaned into his touch and sighed when Josef straightened.

“I love you too. Now get some rest, I’ll be back before the supper bell.” He pulled a quilt from the back of a nearby chair and threw it over Jaskier’s shoulders as he turned to go.

Josef’s mind was already spinning as the door latched shut behind him. His first priority, after arranging rooms for Jaskier, would be placing a bounty on information about a certain Witcher. Jaskier may not want the White Wolf dead, but Josef could hardly allow the man to go unwatched. After all, if Jaskier loved him he was sure to turn up again.

The bard just had that effect on people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *There are a lot of different types of currency used in various regions in the Witcher. Crowns are typically used in Redania and other mid-northern regions. Ducats are used in Cintra and other central western countries. Farthings are used in Oxenfurt. Orens are used in Temeria. I imagine Jaskier would probably like to carry a mix of currencies to facilitate traveling more easily.
> 
> Alternate title for this chapter: "What's in my Not-My-Cousin's Bags: An Unboxing"
> 
> I've been wanting to show how Josef felt about Jaskier since I first wrote him. Hopefully y'all enjoy reading it as much as I had fun writing it :) Let me know!


	3. Ciri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He won’t turn us away,” Geralt said at last. “Not if we ask.”
> 
> “Not if you ask,” Yennefer muttered. “More fool him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately before Singing Silver Chapter 12 - Reunited
> 
> I'm using this map to estimate locations and traveling for the purposes of this story: https://atlasoficeandfireblog.files.wordpress.com/2019/04/the-witcher-map-1.png

It was too cold for Ciri to sleep. Her coat was threadbare by now, and her grandmother’s sash was too small to serve as a blanket. Geralt had thrown his cloak over her shoulders, but it was damp and stank of smoke and something acrid that she preferred not to identify.

Slowly, very slowly, she pulled at it until it came down below her chin and she could see the other occupants of the abandoned stable.

They looked as miserable as she felt.

Geralt had bandaged Yennefer’s hands at least. The angry red blisters were covered in clean, white gauze, neatly pinned at her wrists. They reminded Ciri of the white lace gloves in her mother’s jewelry box, set aside for when she grew old enough to wear such things. 

She used to sneak them out when Mousesack and her governess were distracted and pretend she was hosting tea for all of the ladies at her grandmother’s court. They had felt very fine and delicate, though the fingers had flopped comically and they flung loose if she didn't pay attention. She had stained the cuff when they landed in the fireplace when she was eight and hadn’t taken them out again since, afraid that someone would notice. 

No one would notice now, she supposed. She wondered if a Nilfgaardian lady wore her mother’s gloves, or if some looting soldier had seen the stain and cast them aside.

Her throat ached.

“It’s getting colder,” Geralt said. His voice was low, but no less startling in the silence. “We’re too far south to make it to Kaer Morhen before the snows if we travel afoot.”

“We couldn’t make it to Temeria on foot, let alone Kaedwen. Nilfgaard is too close.” Yennefer closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. 

Geralt rubbed his injured leg and hummed in rueful agreement. Ciri squinted up at his face, flickering in the shadowed light of their single lamp. He looked grim. His craggy worry lines were emphasized by the soot that settled like a blanket over Sodden and the uncanny shadows of the light.

“How far could you portal us?

“Not far. Fringilla can track big magics, and portals aren't exactly parlor tricks. Even if I could get us to Kaer Morhen’s doorstep, I wouldn’t.”

“Hmm.”

Yennefer pinched the edge of her cloak, winced, and tugged it more tightly around herself. “Perhaps Ciri had the right idea. Skellige--”

“Oxenfurt,” Geralt interrupted her. “Could you portal to Oxenfurt?”

Her lips pressed down in a moue of displeasure. “For sanctuary?”

Geralt’s jaw worked for a long minute. Ciri’s eyes flickered between the two of them, itching with curiosity. Yennefer’s eyes glowed in the lamplight like twin violet flames. Geralt matched her stare, his own cat-like golden eyes still glassy with exhaustion and the remnants of his fever.

It felt as though they were speaking without words, the way her grandmother sometimes spoke to Eist when she didn’t want Ciri to know something.

“He won’t turn us away,” Geralt said at last. “Not if we ask.”

“Not if _you_ ask,” Yennefer muttered. “More fool him. We’d be bringing Nilfgaard to his door, you know.”

He winced.

Yennefer rolled her eyes and beckoned imperiously. “The bag near your elbow, Geralt. Pass it to me.”

He pulled it free from their meager pile of belongings and picked loose the knot securing the flap before passing it into her waiting hands. She rustled through it for a moment, at last drawing out a pair of balled up woolen stockings. They were surprisingly plain and bulky, not at all what Ciri would have pictured a sorceress wearing.

Though, of course, the bulk was quickly explained when Yennefer shook them open and caught the ornate snuffbox that tumbled loose from the folds.

Geralt grunted in surprise. “A xenovox?”

“Insurance,” Yennefer explained. “One-way. And I didn’t have time to explain what it was when I left it for him. It’s been a year and a half; odds are he’s sold or lost it.”

_Or had it taken from him,_ Ciri filled in. Her mind’s voice spoke with Dara’s angry cynicism. She squeezed her eyes shut and shoved the familiar ache aside.

When she looked again, Geralt was staring at the snuffbox like a starving man.

“You’ve seen him?”

“More recently than you.” Her voice was sharp. Geralt flinched and Yennfer’s scowl faded into something more like bitterness. “Though not by much. We shared drinks at the mountain’s base before we parted ways. He was performing when I brought him the xenovox and I hadn’t time to wait; Tissaia needed me.”

Resting on his thigh, Geralt’s hand twitched. His forefinger circled around the pad of his thumb, tracing the whorls too slowly to be absentminded. There was a deep crease between his brows. “How was he?”

“At the mountain’s base?”

“Hmm.”

She watched him for a moment. “Drunk, mostly. Surprisingly good company. I could almost see why you kept him around as long as you did.”

Geralt didn’t respond to this, though Yennefer didn’t seem to expect him to. She pried open the lid to the snuffbox and ran her finger around the opening. Face pinching in concentration, she called in a clear, soft voice, “Bard? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

She paused, and the three of them held their breath. Ciri lifted her head a few inches, desperately curious to learn more about this mysterious device and the person - _a bard?_ \- at the other end.

“Yennefer?” The box hissed. The voice was tinny, resonating with magic and mechanics in the dark. Geralt shot forward, eyes locked on the box. Only Yennefer’s glare seemed to keep him from snatching it from her hands. The box crackled again and the voice came back, “What the fuck? I swore I heard--”

“You’re not going mad, you’re holding a xenovox. Are you somewhere safe? Alone?”

“Fuck.” The voice said again, softly, as though to himself. Then more clearly, “Yes. I’m alone.”

“Are you somewhere safe? Oxenfurt, or--”

“Trelogor,” the man corrected. “Safe as houses. Yen, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

Yennefer closed her eyes. Her head bowed to rest on her wrists. She sighed and the effort seemed to leave her deflated, almost boneless.

“Trelogor,” she repeated. “Trelogor is safe.”

The man made some noise of confusion and began half a dozen questions, cutting himself off each time he apparently thought of something more important to ask first. Geralt twitched forward again and Yennefer shot upright, glaring at him. 

Curtly interrupting the interrogation, she bit out, “I don’t have time to tell you much. Sodden has fallen and Nilfgaard will march North. I know what they seek. We must keep it from them at all costs.”

She closed the xenovox lid with a snap, cutting off the man’s exclamation of dismay. The sudden silence weighed down upon them like a fog. Geralt sat back in slow increments, his face stony. Yennefer slid the xenovox back inside her socks and returned the bundle to her bag. Her hands were shaking.

“Why is he in Trelogor?” She mused after a moment.

Geralt shook his head as if to say, _your guess is as good as mine._

Yennefer brushed this unspoken thought aside. “I can portal us to him, but not from here. We need to buy time -- lay false trails.”

“It’s a four day journey to Brugge. Six, if we avoid the roads.”

“Nilfgaard may already be there, or they will be soon.”

Geralt conceded the point. “Fastest way to lay a trail to Skellige,” he countered.

Yennefer nodded. They put their heads together and began to plan the trip. Ciri closed her eyes to listen better and drifted off to the murmur of their voices.

***

She woke at Geralt’s hand on her shoulder. Yennefer still slept, propped against the wall with her neck craned at an angle that gave Ciri sympathetic pains.

Geralt helped her stand and motioned for her to follow him out into the morning air, leaving Yen to sleep a little longer. He had a fire going outside with a rabbit resting on the spit. Her mouth watered at the smell.

“We’re going to Brugge,” Geralt told her as he cut a haunch and placed it in her waiting hands. “Then Yen will portal us to Trelogor.”

“Redania’s capital?” Ciri asked, feigning surprise. “I thought we wanted to travel inconspicuously.”

“Yes. There’s someone there who can help us.” He sat back and watched her eat. His eyes didn’t have the hunger she’d seen when Yennefer had revealed the xenovox, but some vestige of it lingered over him like a pall. 

Ciri wondered if she would have noticed the change if she hadn’t been looking for it.

The rabbit was dry and bland, barely palatable even with her hunger’s heavy seasoning. Ciri finished her portion, licked her fingers, and wished there were more. 

“A friend?” She asked, holding her hands out to the fire.

“Hmm.”

“How long have you known him?”

Geralt’s eyes grew shrewd. She widened her own and feigned innocence. His lips twitched. “Twenty years. We traveled the Path together.”

“Is he another Witcher?”

He smiled, a rare flash of true amusement. “A bard.”

Ciri tried to imagine what kind of bard would follow a Witcher. She tried and failed to imagine what kind of bard Geralt would tolerate for so long. “I didn’t know you liked music,” she offered at last.

“I don’t,” Geralt said dryly. Ciri watched him until, with a slight tilt to his head, he acknowledged, “his songs are better than most.”

“Will he come with us to Kaer Morhen?”

“If he likes.”

Ciri sighed and dropped her pretense of ignorance. “Why did Yennefer say that he’d be foolish to help you if you asked?”

Geralt hummed. “Thought you were awake for that. Your breathing changed.”

She noted this as useful information and brushed past his irritatingly flimsy attempt at redirection. “Was he your lover?”

“No.” Geralt cut another leg from the rabbit and pressed it into her hands without looking at her. Ciri wondered if he was offering her seconds because he hoped she was too genteel to speak with her mouth full.

She allowed him a respite from her questions while she ate, pondering what to say next. When they had first reunited, she had thought that Geralt was in love with Yennefer. They had been so glad to see each other and they shared a silent language just like Eist and her grandmother. Now, though, comparing the friction between them to the yawning chasm she glimpsed in Geralt’s eyes, Ciri wasn’t so sure. 

Geralt didn’t look at Yennefer like that. 

He cleared his throat, apparently determined to cut off her line of questioning before it got worse. Half-growling, he muttered, “I wasn’t kind to him. He deserved...better.” 

Ciri paused between mouthfuls and rested her forearms on her knees. Unbidden, she thought of Dara. _He deserved better_ . She bit her tongue as though the indent of her teeth could take back the words. _I am done apologizing._

Heat prickled at her eyes and knotted her throat until she could barely swallow. Her stomach churned.

She thrust the rabbit, half-eaten, back into Geralt’s hands and turned her chin away. “Then it’s good we’re going to find him. You get a chance to apologize.”

She hated how childish she sounded.

Geralt picked at the meat, watching the fire. “Hmm.”

He hadn’t lost the weight across his shoulders that bowed him forward. Ciri thought, however, that the lines around his mouth weren’t quite so deep. She sniffled and scrubbed her wrist across her cheeks, sitting up more fully.

“So, how did you meet?”

It was almost a week to Brugge, if Nilfgaard didn’t catch them first. Given Geralt’s conversational prowess, she would need the full span to tease out even a few details about his mysterious bard.

At least the walk wouldn’t be entirely dull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And then Fringilla caught up to them on day 3 and Yennefer had to portal them away regardless. The best laid plans and all that. 
> 
> Ciri's mantra this chapter: "I ain't been dropping no eaves, sir, honest!"


End file.
